“Lost”

“Lost”

I feel the confusion in your kisses.

Open mouthed and adrift.

A beauty when your sweaty,

you drive my madness swift.

A desert expedition,

a traveling caravan.

I’m a gypsy in your harem,

a crusader in your land.

Your heart is fixed in motion,

why the need, to act so cold?

a chance at your devotion,

is worth its weight in gold.

I huddle in a dungeon,

a prison meant to keep.

you liberate my passion,

and set my soul at ease.

“Hot Urine”

 

“Hot Urine”

Oh, the years in between,

then and now.

But, how?

Traveling from Boston to Miami.

From Miami to Key West.

At tradition’s behest.

Appropriately dressed.

A briefcase full of booze.

New Balance shoes.

A plush animal stolen from a Walpole Kegger.

Kennel beneath the plane, in cargo.

Chompah!

Midnight Rompah.

Chicanery ensued.

Krispy Kreme paper hats.

Suspicious fun.

Arrived before we left,

bereft of sobriety,

and

propriety.

Miami Airport Car Rental Center.

A Trojan Hearse.

 

 

Full of dead youth,

not for lack of trying.

 A bachelorhood dying,

for spite and gripe,

and a nasty fuck of fiancée,

that later enlightened me.

Not all stories have a happy ending,

neither do massages.

Messages crossed,

and we’re off!

160 miles to where the birds land,

where the pelicans can,

Pelican Landing.

Key West grandstanding.

So demanding.

Three hours, and twenty-two minutes,

according to MapQuest.

 

 

First stop, packy.

Pile in backy.

How does one decrease the ETA to a more palatable time?

No bathroom breaks.

Just groupthink,

and speed limit skill.

Don’t spill.

Six cases of beer.

Beer in, beer out.

Bucket brigade.

Don’t drink the Kool-Aid!

Hot Urine!

Pass the cuppy to the left one time,

shotgun launch.

Highway becomes whizzway.

Solo cups,

filled up,

passed up.

Returned empty.

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

Practice.

How do you get to Key West?

Debauchery.

All that time saved,

ETA decreased.

What does one do with the excess?

Why, you spend it wisely of course,by stopping at the first Adult Store available.

Twenty-five cent peeps.

Screen down, screen up.

Jizz mopper at attention.

Not a mention,

of the tension,

released.

Novelty:

A bumpah stickah slapped on the back of the great white whale.

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Many horns accompanied us on our surge to Mordor.

Solos used, beers consumed.

When did we get there?

We got there before we arrived.

The lot imbibed.

Boston Pride.

Hot Urine ride.

All over the sides.

On the Hunt for Freeto Pies.

Not denied.

Returned the white whale to the rental deal,

it had more of a mustard sheen,

our pelican queen.

Bladder camaraderie.

Landing on a Key West Beach.

Chompah, unleashed.

Megaphones, and Hemingway homes.

Discocock.

Duval Block.

Papa Joe found his soul,

at Teasers.

Met Derek,

and his mullet.

Broke all the rules,

of the pool.

Within twelve minutes of arriving.

Got launched from Pelican Landing.

Cash withstanding.

Megaphones demanded.

Eat my ass!

Eat my ass!

Perhaps, in a different quarter the response would have been more acceptable.

Blue Marlin Motel.

 

 

 

Mexican Wrestling Masks.

Sunburns.

Swingers.

Kid Rock routine boombox,

while Sarah Smiles played her bass in tune.

Naked hangs.

Stolen bikes.

“Wouldn’t fuck you for a nickel!”

Boy, did that incite.

 

Memory forgets.

 

Oh, the years in between,

then and now.

But, how?

Traveling from Boston to Miami.

From Miami to Key West.

Those guys were the best,

some are fiercely missed.

Traveling down the highway of life,

a fellowship of launched piss.

“Pity Party”

“Pity Party”

Incessant drone of failure.

You cultivate a rage within me,

for your fight is continually a fevered race to who has it worst?

You win.

I have work to do.

You vandalize my empathy.

You spit a vast vigorous venom into my face.

You win at failing and remaining in that nook.

You were destined to stay confined within your myopic view.

You deserve your pain.

Relish it.

Grow it,

It is your identity.

You were born for failure,

and you are the greatest at that, truly.